


The Well of Sorrows

by TheMageRebellion



Series: OTP: The Magister and the Hunter [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMageRebellion/pseuds/TheMageRebellion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan must choose who will drink from the Well of Sorrows, but Dorian will have none of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Well of Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> Just an angsty drabble that's been floating around my brain for a few days.

            _What a day,_ Olwyn thought, running a hand through is tousled raven hair.

            He risked a glance at the Well of Sorrows, Abelas’ words ringing loud in his mind. “Bound forever to the will of Mythal” didn’t sound any more appealing the second time than it had coming from the elf’s mouth not five minutes earlier.

            Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dorian shift a step closer to him. The mage was subtly shifting from foot to foot, alerting Olwyn to his obvious discomfort with the whole idea of _anyone_ drinking from the Well.

            “So what will it be, Inquisitor?” Morrigan asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

            Olwyn glared at the witch for a moment longer than necessary. By the Creators, she was not making this easy on him. It was clear that she was knowledgeable regarding ancient elven lore, but she was obviously, _painfully_ shemlen; a fact that put in him in no position to relinquish the Well’s power to her. That, and she’d given him little reason to trust her from the moment they met. Not an hour ago she’d kept information regarding the Well from him, and who knew what other secrets she kept from him and the other leaders of the Inquisition.

            And _he_ was elven. He’d grown up speaking the tongue of his ancestors, learning what stories the rest of his clan safeguarded against the fickleness of memory. He wore his vallaslin with honor in dedication to Andruil. He was Dalish to the core, so who was he to give Mythal’s last blessing to a _shem_?

            “I could do it,” he offered quietly, almost to himself.

            It was Morrigan’s turn to glare. “ _You_ lead the Inquisition,” she pointed out. “This is not a risk you can take.”

            “This is _my_ heritage!” he growled.

            “Amatus,” Dorian said quietly, stepping closer. “Amatus, _please_ … don’t do this! I know what this must mean to you but I can’t…” His voice broke, preventing him from continuing.

            “Dorian—”

            “I can’t lose you, Olwyn,” the mage begged, gripping the elf’s shoulders.

            Olwyn smiled, hoping it would ease the ache in his heart from the tears in Dorian’s eyes as well as the pain he was obviously causing his lover. “You won’t,” he promised, taking the Tevinter’s hand in his own.


End file.
